


Enough

by beetle



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:31:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Too long to be a drabble, yet too short to be a short story. A 327-word Spander piece</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Spoilers: Um... early season seven-ish spoilers. Maybe

He’s drunk off his ass again when he staggers into the apartment.  
  
I, of course, have been waiting up for him, loyal butt-monkey that I am. And he’s - he’s all with the drunkenness and out-of-control ranting about the Slayers-in-Training and how green they all are. How  _mortal. He_  has to teach them how to not get killed. There’s irony in that; I know because he’s muttering to himself about said irony over a mug - my mug, probably - of blood. He doesn’t care if I hear.  
  
Then he’s in my room, bringing the smells of whiskey, cigarettes and O-pos. He’s crawling - too drunk to  _stalk_  - across my bed like a bleach-blond wet dream come true in the midst of the worst nightmare ever. His hands are in my hair then ghosting over my shoulders and down my chest. His blunt human teeth bruise and nip. His cock pushes into me slowly, relentlessly -  
  
He shudders to a stop inside me, shouting her name. As always. His cool, hard body is now silent against mine. He’s still angry. Tears run down his face as he thrusts into me again. Gotta admire vampiric recovery time, all twenty seconds of it.  
  
“I’m. Never. Enough,” he grunts, teary, empty-pale eyes staring through me, seeing who he really wants to be with. Each word is punctuated by my head hitting the headboard, and the headboard hitting the wall.  
  
I don’t contradict him, or stroke his gel-crusty hair to soothe him. Soothing’s not what he’s looking for and it wouldn’t be appreciated. It’s not like that between us. The First Evil’s in town, the mouth of Hell is opening at our feet and there is no comfort for either of us, especially not in this.  
  
I turn my face from his, baring my throat and closing my eyes. Then I’m coming. I’m beyond  _comforting_ ; I’m being blotted out by double damnation.  
  
Oh, yes. He’s enough.


End file.
